The Cotton Mill

Chapter 1 “Ten minutes til’ blast. All unauthorized personnel must leave the secured area now!” the shot-supervisor said, his voice booming with the aid of the bull-horn. The excitement of the six-hundred or so spectators, gathered in the vacant lot of the long-since-gone railroad depot station, had reached a fever pitch. The din of conversations from old friends, reunited after years of absence for this one nostalgic moment, now became a cacophony of discussions hastening to finish. As if a death sentence had just been handed down by a jury, the group began to grasp the imminent finality of the fateful moment. A melancholy hush, like an early-morning fog rolling off the New River, swept over the onlookers. Several cars could be seen speeding away from the site of the old mill. The large brick factory stood like an ancient stoic silhouette against the green clad Blue Ridge Mountains. The vehicles pulled in to park in front of the two-storey, masonry firehouse, safely away from the blast area and protected by the buildings along Main Street. The occupants then walked quickly through the parking lot, across the narrow street, and up the seventeen steps to join the others in the parking lot. The only sound that broke the quietude was the crunching of feet as they walked across the fly-ash bedding of the New River Trail that had replaced the old N & W Railroad line. This area had been determined to be the best observation point while still a safe distance from the impending blast. Jason Campbell smiled at his old football pal, French Albertson, the mayor of Fries, as he huffed and puffed his way to the top of the steps. “Frenchman, I haven’t seen you breathing that hard since Coach used to have us run suicide sprints during football practice,” Jason said in a low voice, not wanting to break the reverence of the moment. The mayor flashed his ever-present smile. “Hey Jason…Good to see you...” as he spoke between breaths. “Didn’t know you were a’comin…. down for the big day. Yeah, 40 years and 60 pounds… will do that to ya.” Jason knew just what he meant. As a beanpole 130 pound sophomore, Coach Statzer had decided the only position he could play, without facing certain death, would be quarterback. Now Jason weighed more than most of the team’s biggest lineman at that time. “How’s the banking business?” Jason said, giving his friend a chance to regain his breath. In addition to being mayor, French was also the president of the Fries National Bank. For a moment, the perpetual smile disappeared, as French took a deep breath. “Not too good Jason. It seems every day we have to foreclose on one of our old pals. It’s breaking my heart, it really is. I hate this part of my job.” FIVE MINUTES TILL BLAST “Well, get me caught up French,” Jason said in a nearly muted voice. “I’m ashamed that I have lost touch with everyone.” “Ah, that’s okay; we know you’ve been busy. Congratulations on that book. I think the town bought every copy the Galax Wal-Mart had, and they had to reorder twice. We’re all mighty proud of you Jason.” “Thanks, it really surprised me it did so well.” Jason said, attempting humility. “I wish now I’d published it ten years ago instead of waiting so long.” “When’s the next one coming out? What’s it gonna be about?” “Not sure. I guess I’m not what you’d call a ‘prolific’ writer. I can’t just sit down and write five pages a day. I guess I just have to wait until an idea jumps up and bites me in the ass.” Anxious to change the subject, Jason then looked over the bank at the three-storey white lap-sided building, plywood covering the windows nearest the blast area. “The old hotel’s looking good, who’s running it?” “Actually no one is. It’s a private home now, a weekend retreat. Do you remember the Watkins boys, Billy and Ricky?” “Yeah, I do. They were a few years behind me. Didn’t they play music?” “Yeah, they won first place at the Galax Fiddler’s Convention several years in a row, so then they went off to Nashville and began making Bluegrass records. I haven’t been in it since they first began remodeling, but I understand it’s a showplace. They invite their Nashville buddies up for a weekend once in a while. Guess they like to show their fans they still have their roots in small town America. They don’t usually cause any trouble, except occasionally when they try to stand on the back deck and see if any of them can pee into the river.” “Yeah, but I bet their money is still in Nashville,” Jason said with a laugh. “Well, it’s certainly not in my bank, that’s for sure.” ONE MINUTE TILL BLAST! Several people began placing makeshift plugs into their ears; tissues, cloth, a few had even brought actual earplugs or ear protection from their workplaces at the Volvo Plant down in Dublin, or the Radford Arsenal. “Well, looks like this is it.” French whispered, as he swallowed. Both men felt a wistful rush of dread as the moment actually approached. “Yeah, this is it,” Jason said quietly. “The old gal is about to bite the dust.” Some began looking down at their watches. Others, including Jason, began a mental countdown. Eleven, ten one-thousands, nine one-thousands, eight one-thousands, seven one-thousands, six one-thousands. The mental counting was interrupted; FIRE IN THE HOLE Two seconds pass. FIRE IN THE HOLE Another two seconds pass. FIRE, FIRE, FIRE The first blast sent a percussion wave throughout the group. Several people who had never witnessed an explosion screamed and ducked instinctively behind cars. Then a rat-tat-tat is heard as a salvo of smaller charges detonated, each strategically located on the columns of the old building, each releasing a puff of gray, sulfur-laden smoke from the nearest window openings of the old mill. Then, as a crescendo of sequential blasts reached the bottom floor, a final huge explosion was heard. A loud, rumbling thunder echoed off the canyon walls across the river. The entire building seemed to rise five to ten feet off the ground and then settled back. It seemed to just stand there, like an aged prize-fighter who had just taken an onslaught of punches, but withstood them, still standing there, shaking his head dizzily. The old girl’s not going down easy. Jason thought to himself But before he could say it aloud, the parapet around the roof began folding inward. Like the prize fighter, whose legs finally refused to support his weight, the building commenced collapsing downward to the mat. Each floor took turns folding inside the others. The bricks, timbers, and plaster, soaked by the sweat of the tens of thousands who had toiled in 100+ degree temperatures for 80 years, collapsed into one great heap. A gray mushroom of debris erupted upward to about 50 feet, just like the final exhaust of the prize fighter as he blows out his mouth piece. The cooling river breeze quickly swept the nebulous smoke down the valley. For the first time, since the factory was built a century before, the people were able to see from this location the dam that had been built to provide the electricity for the plant and the town. There was a mixture of emotions; a smattering of applause, a few deep throated gasps and sighs, and a few audible wailings. The symphony of sounds united into a mournful dirge. “Well, I guess that’s it,” Jason said as he turned to French. French placed his hand on Jason’s elbow and led him to an isolated corner of the lot. Jason could see that French had something to share, but his friend was having a difficult time starting the conversation. “Jason, you know how the closing of the mill fifteen years ago hurt the town. Then the final straw was the county shutting the school with nary a how-do-you-do. It was bad enough when they closed the high school portion and tore it down, but well, when they closed down the elementary part, it was like all the life was sucked right out of us.” “Yeah French, I know it was rough.” “Well, I’m going to tell you something but you have to keep it to yourself,” he said as he looked around, and lowered his voice even more. “No one knows this except the town council and a few other people involved. I’m letting you know because I know you’ve made some friends in higher places than the rest of us have.” French hesitated, and then began licking his lips as if he had to prime them, as one would prime an old well pump, to start his words flowing again. “There is a good chance that if we can get some government grants that would improve the highways from the interstate to the town and upgrade the utilities, we might be able to land a major company here, one that would employ 900, maybe a thousand people. They like having the dam, and figure they can produce their own electricity. But before they would even consider it, they said we had to raze the old plant. They actually paid the cost for bringing it down.” The mayor hesitated, looking into his friend’s eyes, which revealed the deep interest that Jason was feeling. “When I first told the town council about it, the s**t really hit the fan,” French continued. They felt this was right up there with Lee’s surrender at Appomattox. Many people in this town refused to stop believing another company would come into the old mill building. They refused to believe that the old plant was a liability, not an asset. But I finally convinced them that we had to take the chance. But Jason, if this falls through, I’m finished in this town. No one will ever speak to me again, much less bank with me.” “Well, French, I’m not sure you had any other choice. The old plant had stood there for fifteen years, and no one made any offers to buy it and put it to use.” “Exactly Jason. As one of the officials from the company told me, ‘You have to clear away the haze of the past, if you ever want to clearly see the vision of the future.’ Well, I sure hope the haze of the past is floating down the river right now and I hope like hell we will be able to see the vision of a better future.” As the crowd began to return to their every day activities Jason’s eyes were fixated on the now visible pile of debris. Huge Kamatsu excavators were already tramming into place, with massive tandem dump trucks following close behind. So much for them letting the old gal have her moment of peace, Jason thought. Within minutes the mammoth off-road dump trucks were being loaded with the debris to be hauled to a big hole where the old warehouse had once stood. What a great place to construct a town park. Jason thought. Kinda like that Mt. Trashmore in Virginia Beach, the park that was built on top of the old landfill. For 80 years this mill had driven the town of Fries. It was the town. The homes, the YMCA, the bank, they were all originally owned by the company. Even the school, first through twelfth, owed its existence to the company. It had always been one of the smallest public schools in the state. Only forty-eight students had graduated with Jason. Yes, The Mill was the town but, for the last 20 years, it had been a fraud, merely a façade. At its peak it employed over 1500 workers. By the mid 1980’s, the arrival of foreign imports had dropped the number of workers to less than 300. Then, in the1990’s, the mill had silenced its looms and locked its gates. There was still hope though because the last owner of the mill, Southern Cotton, had given the building to the town, free and clear. Surely there would be someone willing to open up in a building with low rent or would purchase it for a fraction of what it would cost to build a new plant. But then two words leaped out to dash these hopes; asbestos and PCBs. No one dared touch a building that had these materials and risk the cost of their clean-up. By the time it was confirmed that neither was found in the old building, it was beyond saving. So, for the last two decades, the empty building stood, teasingly reminding everyone of “the good ole days”. Standing there, watching the wisp of lingering smoke, haunting the site with its gray specter, and smelling of exploded powder, Jason suddenly began seeing himself being reflected figuratively in the sight below. He had grown thanks to the Cotton Mill, and its influence on the town. He had learned many life’s lessons from Sap Jones, his disciplinarian YMCA baseball coach who carried a paddle and used it for such indiscretions as failing to say “Sir”, but then would put his arm around you and tell you “you’ll do better next time” when you struck out with the bases loaded. There were the teachers at the High School who recognized potential in a student, and settled for nothing less. He had learned pride of a job well-done as the result of hard work on the stone-laden practice field and on the football field on Friday night. He had been the hero of the gridiron, just to see all of his dreams of college glory and perhaps even a pro-career, end. He had then taken the encouragement from his teachers to earn an Engineering degree from VA Tech. He had seen a second career in writing be added, with a NY Times best seller to his credit. Yes, he was the pride of the town. But he knew he was also a fraud, a façade of what others saw and thought. He knew his life was imploding around him also. As with the mill, he could feel everything crumbling inside him. His marriage. His finances. His hopes and dreams. They all would soon lie in a rumble like the one before him. How long before he would be nothing but a pile of debris, being hauled off to a hole in the ground? And once he was, would anyone care?